William Shakespeare, on the 450th observance of his birthday.
And inspired by the sonnet offered by The Writer’s Almanac today in honor of The Bard.
When I appear to be doing nothing
which might be most of the time so it seems
I sit and stare at my most current darling,
at the future, and wonder at the dreams.
The ghosts of thought, the wisps of what might be,
the fear of what time might deny and kill
splash shadows long and blue down what I see
and shake the joy of process to fulfill.
In moments where the puzzle falls away
and path to process spins and then unwinds
there is a dark and perilous bit of fray
the hunter stalking steadily the hind
that fear of never seeing this complete
that chases each idea with process sweet.
